


vertigo

by hurryup



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Cop!Link, Detective Noir, Detective!Allen, M/M, Organized Crime, Period-Typical Racism, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: Los Angeles, 1951.  Allen Walker, a private eye of cult celebrity status, has been running from his past for a long time.  Howard Link, an LAPD cop rising quickly through the ranks, finds himself caught between that which is lawful and that which is right.As Sunset Boulevard crackles with caged heat, the thread of their investigations meet. With them, corruption, obsession, and celebrity meet in a game of chess that holds the entire city as its hostage.The descent into hell is easy. All it takes is a little push.





	1. the big sleep

Evening fell over the city, leaving the rain-slicked streets dark and damp; lit only by the uneasy scarlet glow of the casinos and all-night gin joints. The salarymen piled into their automobiles, one hand latched to the handle of their briefcase, the other cradling the wide brim of their hats. Working folders into binders as they balanced unlit cigars between their lips, police analysts and recruits took to the streets, too, hailing cabs in tired voices and talking smack about picture films, cheap beer, and Rita Hayworth.  
  
The caseworkers remained. A damp breeze swirled smoke from their cigarettes, and the sun flitted between mottled Venetian blinds; it hesitated, languished, and disappeared without a trace like the missing children they hunted without hope.  
  
Anyone could get lost in the City of Angels, and more often than not, they did.  
  
Detective Sergeant Link inclined his head to track the ceaseless rotation of the minute hand on his watch. The watch itself was a classy piece; a silver piece with a black dial. One of the better birthday gifts he'd received from the department. This year, they'd joked they ought to pool together to buy Link a girl. He'd protested, and they heckled, coming to the conclusion that work _was_ his woman.  
  
Maybe there was some truth in that; it'd certain explain why he was still trapped at his desk poring over the passing week's reports at 7:00 PM.  
  
There was no patiently waiting for the day Los Angeles discovered murder and gun-toting were inimical to their best interest. Rather, the LAPD pursued and subsequently punished the criminal element with wild and zealous fanaticism.  
  
And often, equal parts murder and gun-toting, Link thought, thinking to the service revolver in the shoulder holster under his blazer. You'd have to be blind or dead not to see that the department was marked by bloodshed— however, theirs was a violence borne from necessity.  
  
Link felt a clap on his back, and started abruptly.  
  
"Go home, Howie," Tokusa said. "It's past your bedtime."  
  
"Don't call me that," Link said, short.  
  
An eyeroll. "Or what? You'll arrest me?"  
  
"I could certainly file a harassment complaint."  
  
"Oh, no, you've found my hidden weakness." Tokusa's eyes widened in mock-terror. " _Bureaucracy_."  
  
"Right. By the way, sharp shooting on the Despot Inn case," Link said. He tapped the report on his desk. One felon, 45 years old, had tried to pull something. A bad call; and one that had left him with three bullets in his back from one Ithaca 37 shotgun. Eerily, Tokusa grinned.  
  
"You know, I got my picture in the papers after that case. Called me a hero. Did you see that? I got it pinned up on my desk."  
  
"Nice work. Wonder how you'd do on a moving target," Link continued, listless. He glanced back down to his desk. The man in question had been unarmed, something Link had a feeling was left out of the press. Not for the first time in his life, Link was struck by the thought he and Tokusa made very different cops.  
  
"Tensions were high. It was a tough call, but one that needed to be made."  
  
"Truly, Tokusa, your life is so difficult." Link touched a hand over his heart.  
  
"I'll tell you what, it is. You know, private dicks have been hot on my ass all week for details on the Despot Inn. Walker's gang, maybe you've run into them? I told 'em, _sure thing, I'll tell you whatever you wanna know— first, I've just gotta see your badge_." Tokusa laughed, looking for all the world like the cat who got the cream.  
  
"Looking into Despot Inn?" Link frowned, glanced up.  
  
"Hell if I know why. Between you and me, Howie, other than the fact someone died, it was a routine DEA roundup."  
  
He leaned against Link's desk, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter. He lifted it to his lips and lit it casually, speaking around it carefully.  
  
"Walker's in good with _The Los Angeles Bookman_. I'll they're looking to run some bullshit story on police brutality. Pain in the goddamn neck. If Walker had been in my shoes, he'd have pulled the trigger, too."  
  
He shook the pack of Camels in Link's direction, offering.  
  
"Cigarette?"  
  
"You know I don't smoke, Tokusa."  
  
"Yeah, but if anyone ever needed to, it'd be you, detective," Tokusa rolled his eyes. He slid the pack back into his pocket, taking a thoughtful drag. "I was serious when I told you to go home, though— or at least get out of this goddamned office. Tell you what. You, me, a pair of cold beers, and a show. I know a great burlesque downtown. Real classy. Great girls."  
  
"Pass," Link said. He shuffled the documents on his desk. Tokusa's expression softened, marginally. There, for a flash, was knowing look of an old friend. Link nearly laughed. He tried to imagine how incorrigible he might seem to someone like Tokusa; just as Tokusa often seemed incorrigible to him. 

"You always were after that promotion," Tokusa went on, level.  
  
"Guilty as a charged," Link said, with a smile that meant _I'm lying._

 

* * *

 

 

Kanda felt like fucking shit.  
  
He sat with his arms folded, staring down the clock overhead as if willing it through supernatural force to move more quickly. Exhausted, sore, nursing a whiskey hangover— and moreover, more pissed off than a Coca-Cola and a handful of aspirin could cure.  
  
Outside the redbrick window, the sky was Teflon gray— the approach guard of a thunderstorm, or even the tail end of a tropical typhoon; at least, so he'd heard from the crackle and static of his car radio on the drive back to the office. Either way, a little gloomy weather was a small price to pay in exchange for the end of the August heat spell that'd turned the office into a stewpot for weeks on end. They'd simmered like hardboiled eggs. Lenalee had dragged in four extra desk fans just to keep them all from keeling over from heat exhaustion— especially Lavi, who ran hot and loved to complain about it.  
  
"That's one hell of a shiner," Lavi observed, gesturing to Kanda's right eye, which was bruising a fantastic shade of blue. They were the only two in the office, held up waiting for Lenalee and the beansprout to reconvene with them. "What'd you do to earn that?"  
  
Lavi carried himself with the kind of attractive sleaziness that had become practically synonymous with Hollywood. He kept his suit blazer thrown over one shoulder haphazardly, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. At all times, he kept his camera slung about his neck. It slumbered there like a holstered gun; harmless, until the moment it wasn't.  
  
"None of your business," Kanda returned, tone clipped. His expression hardened. Infuriatingly, Lavi rolled his eyes.  
  
"What? No _'you should've seen the other guy?_ ' Not gonna regale me with fantastic tales of your masculinity? You know I love a good story, Yuu."  
  
That needled on Kanda, and his shoulders tightened. "I said it's none of your goddamn business, _rabbit_."  
  
"Easy, tough guy." Lavi rolled his eyes, and leaned to crack a window open before lighting a cigarette up. Kanda smoked Camels, but Lavi smoked Chesterfields— apparently not due to any particular preference, but due to the fact he'd seen Barbara Stanwyck promote them on a poster ad in 1948. Lavi had a weakness those silver screen goddesses. For a quick extra buck, Kanda knew, he'd occasionally station himself outside the MGM studio and take pap shots of the beautiful comers-and-goers for _Confidential_. It seemed seedy to Kanda, but he knew to shut the hell up about it when it paid the agency's rent another month.  
  
There was the obnoxious buzz of the phone ringing. Kanda groaned and pivoted in his chair, moving to answer it, but Lavi waved him off.  
  
"Don't bother. The same dame's been ringing for Allen all day, now. Sounded breathless when I answered the phone, thinking I might be him. I think she's a fan. Ain't that something?"  
  
"A travesty, maybe."  
  
"You jealous?"  
  
Kanda scoffed, affronted by the very thought. "He only has fans in the first place because you idolise him in that ridiculous rag of yours."  
  
Allen Walker, scourge of the tyrant LAPD, hero of the people. A load of bull, as far as Kanda was concerned. Allen Walker charged for his heroism, just like every other two-bit private eye in the city. Lavi's damned paper had ever bleeding-heart in the city trembling at their doorstep, looking for their runaways daughters or cats or clocks on one memorable incident.  
  
Well, in Kanda's opinion, a beansprout was a beansprout, no matter how good his publicity was.  
  
"Call it a rag all you like, but _The Los Angeles Bookman_ sells." He pursed his lips and, with great focus, blew a ring of smoke that floated off into the long dark of the night.  
  
"No accounting for poor taste."  
  
"Hey, just say the world, and I'll make you a cult hero, too. I hear the people like 'em dark and gritty. I can see the headlines now, Kanda. Avenger of the night and _la-dee-dah,_ combating crime and social stigma."  
  
"You can take your headlines and shove them up your ass," Kanda bit back. The phone trilled again, sending a spike of pain that tore through Kanda's migraine like an axe. Lavi ignored it blithely.  
  
He heard Lenalee and Allen coming before he even saw them. It was the the click of her shoes against the hallway tiles, set against the quieter thud of Allen's footfalls.  
  
Lenalee pushed the door open, and the hinges gave in with a drawn-out creak. She was in the process of closing an enormous black umbrella. Allen, for his part, was shucking off his long, tan coat.  
  
"Afternoon," Allen said, looking far too cheerful for someone whose hair was wet with rain. Miraculously, the white manilla folder in his hands was completely cry. Lucky, too; it's contents were mostly like the result of a full day's work. Lavi gave them a military-style salute, still grinning like a loon.  
  
"Afternoon, Allen. And ain't you lookin' pretty as a picture, Lenalee."  
  
"Flatterer," she said, but her smile was warm. Though he said nothing, he thought that Lavi had it right . Lenalee wore red and black to an effect that managed to seem both dangerous and endearing, like the world's most charming vampire. Allen, on the other hand, looked like a the poster child for post-war poverty. His shirt was impossibly rumpled; his tie left undone around his neck. There was a patch of dried blood on one shirtsleeve.  
  
"You two were finishing up a background check, right?"  
  
"Right." Allen nodded, momentarily lost in thought. "I feel it went pretty well."  
  
"Kanda, what happened to your face?" Lenalee asked as her umbrella finally folded shut. She held it in both hands, momentarily flummoxed as she stared directly at Kanda, or more specifically, the bruising that decorated him.  
  
"It's nothing."  
  
"Probably another stupid bar brawl," Allen told her, matter-of-fact. Kanda's eyebrow twitched. He wouldn't dignify that with an answer.  
  
"Are you sure you're alright?" Lenalee continued, eyeing Kanda anxiously as she stripped herself of her raincoat.  
  
"It's fine," he grit out, emphatic. He resisted to reach up and touch the bruise; remember the punch that had inspired the breakage of blood and ventricles beneath the skin, and the hit he'd returned, harder and better. It had been stupid; no dodging, no technique, just too angry fucks slugging it out in the middle of a crowded room. Well, it was nineteen fifty- _fucking_ -one. Any fatass barman who still refused to serve a Jap deserved to have his head smashed against a bar stool. Propaganda had gone deep into these people; God only knew when it'd crawl back on.  
  
_Wars come and go,_ Kanda thought, _but people never fucking change._  
  
He switched tacks to business; the only topic he and Allen could ever agree on.  
  
"You ever make headway on the Despot Inn?"  
  
Lavi lifted his head in interest. Lenalee just sighed.  
  
"Hit a wall," Allen said, bitter. "Big, slimy one named the LAPD. I have a few eyewitnesses I could check out, but to be honest, I think the whole investigation is a dead end—"  
  
The phone rang again. Kanda lifted a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. Their shiny red of the telephone set suddenly seemed to be the most obnoxious thing on Earth. Poisonously, he briefly imagined himself smashing it with a hammer. Lavi, on the other hand, hummed in apparent pleasure.  
  
"That'll be for you, Allen," he said.  
  
"Me?" Allen ran a hand through the pale mess of his hair, and frowned.  
  
"Yeah, you, Mr. Popular. And if it's an admirer, make sure to charge 'em for your autograph."

Allen snorted. "I've never given an autograph in my life. I'm a detective, not a jazz singer, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go get 'em, cool cat."  
  
Allen went to his desk, lifting the receiver to his ear like he had a hundred times before. Lavi put his cigarette to his lips and took another drag. Lenalee began to rifle through the manilla folder, sorting out what would be useful, what wouldn't be.  
  
"Hello?" Allen paused, taking in some response only he could hear. "Mm. Yeah, this is him."  
  
Kanda went over the details; the articles in the papers that revealed nothing, the rumours rumbling below that confirmed everything. Blood, money; the crushed remains of bullet shells. A man with a lotus tattoo. He could feel his own burning through his shirt; the indelible reminder of things past, and of things yet to come.  
  
Then Allen's voice broke through his thoughts, the last vestiges of a smile faded from his lips, eyes paralysingly wide—  
  
"What do you mean _dead_?"

 

* * *

 

Link padded across the apartment and pushed the bathroom door open, observing the scene inside with familiar dread. Suman Dark's corpse floated in a pool of cold, pink water. His wrists, which rested on either side of the tub, were caked up to the elbows in great smears of semi-wet blood. There was no note; but the evidence of his sin could be read in the details of his body.  
  
Link removed his shoes before entering the bathroom, then crept to kneel by Dark's side. The pattern of the cuts were consistent with the tell-tale signs of self-inflicted injury. Beneath the broad, horizontal slashes, he could make out the thin impression of hesitation cuts. He'd gored himself with a box cutter; it had clattered to the floor, presumably as Dark bled out in the hot, fading foam.  
  
With gloved hands, Link leaned to pick it up, examined it, then gestured for a junior officer to bring him an evidence bag. They could test it for fingerprints, sure; but at the end of the day, no murderer was so careless as to leave their weapon behind. Link was certain enough the only prints they'd be finding on the tough plastic of it's grip were the fingerprints of one Suman Dark.  
  
Today's widow was hysterical in her disbelief. She demanded, face muffled against the white cloth of her linen handkerchief, that her husband's death be treated as a murder.  
  
It was a demand Link had been hearing ever since he first started working homicide. It was one he'd accept, examine, dissemble accordingly before returning it with a sombre refusal.  
  
Link had once thought homicide was the most glamorous division of the LAPD. Now, it just seemed a blur of late-night emergency calls and would-be actors strung up on their own nooses. A body was a body was a body, and the department had the agonising duty of investigating the bloodless manslaughters, suicides, and sadistic murders of L.A. with equal scrutiny.  
  
The real trick was learning not to look away.  
  
Suicide duty was often delegated to Link, maybe on account of his levelheadedness, but more probably due the fact he was about the right height for weeping widows to repose their heads upon his shoulder. Widows certainly seemed to prefer the young officers over the old, and liked plainclothes officers best of all. Something about the LAPD uniform frightened them. It made the scene too real.  
  
"He wouldn't, he wouldn't," she said between sobs, clutching at Link's lapel. These were the long, broken sounds of a woman destroyed. Somewhere behind them, Suman's body was being zipped up and wheeled into the questionable infrastructure of the building's elevator. "We— we have a daughter, please, sir, I know he _wouldn't—_ "  
  
"We'll look into the matter, ma'am," Link murmured, ducking his head. Gently, he pried her fingertips off of his collar. "However, it is my professional opinion that your husband's wounds were self-inflicted. I'm sorry."  
  
She shook her head furiously. Her entire body was wracked by the great, shuddering production of her tears.  
  
These young, unveiled widows. Each time Link met another, he felt the world grow a little colder. They cried harder for the thought they'd been abandoned. They cried harder, clutching rosaries, for the thought they now lived in the shadow of sin.  
  
The rest of the day was a blur of interviews, the bulk of which confirmed Link's hunch. The same monotone questions met the same quiet, start-stop answers. Had Dark seemed sad or withdrawn as of late? Was there anyone who might have wanted to hurt Dark? Did he ever talk about dying? _Yes, no, oh, officer, I just don't know, I just don't know._  
  
Link kept his own rosary hung above the dashboard of his car. In the dark, the glassy beads reflected whatever light came it's way. The entire strip was condensed there; red and orange and black.  
  
Los Angeles was burning itself up; burning everything it had to keep the neon shining beneath the sea of smoke. It wrapped itself around Link like an old friend. It was warm. As warm as it was dark.  
  
Warm as the breath of hell at your back.  
  
_Holy Mary, Mother of God,_  he thought, _pra_ y _for us sinners now and at the hour of our death._

 

* * *

 

The order to see the Chief of Police in his office reached Link the moment he returned to the bureau. The idea didn't exactly enthrall him, but he went as he was commanded.  
  
Link knocked once, prim; opening the door upon a murmur of assent from inside. The interior of his office was richly furnished, plush and red like the inside of a jewellery box. Levellier's desk was made of a dark, exotic wood Link could not identify. It was decorated with framed photographs of children Link did not recognize, a blue matchbook, and a small mountain of dossiers,  
  
"Sergeant Detective," Levellier said, the deep rumble of his voice. He had a thick cigar between his teeth. The tangy scent of it permeated the entire room. A scent Link neither enjoyed nor disliked, but rather abided. "Sit down."  
  
Link went to the desk and sat down stiffly. Too stiffly, because Levellier cracked an expression that was downright merciful.  
  
"At ease. I'm not here to reprimand you."  
  
Link nodded, but only relaxed marginally. "Then what am I here for, sir?"  
  
Levellier didn't answer immediately, taking his time to pluck the cigar from between his teeth and exhale a long plume of smoke.  
  
"Detective is a tough job," he said, thoughtful. "Isn't it?"  
  
Link wasn't quite sure how to follow that up. He nodded in assent. He thought of the widows. And new orphans that climbed in the back of police cars and went nowhere, forever. Then he thought of nothing.  
  
"Homicide especially. Extremely difficult. Violent," Levellier continued. He observed Link over folded hands. "Didn't know if you'd have the stomach. You'd always been a paper-pusher... and violence is a necessary adjunct of the profession, of course."  
  
Link frowned. "We'll have to agree to disagree on that front, sir."  
  
"That wasn't an opinion," Levellier said, crisp. "It was a fact."  
  
The cigar returned to it's home between his teeth, and he took a long, ruminating drag. Link waited without speaking.  
  
"But I didn't call you here to argue philosophy. You've been doing good work, lately. Burning the midnight oil. That's good. We need cops that can get things done."  
  
"Thank you," Link said, because that was the appropriate response.  
  
Levellier's eyes narrowed.  
  
"I'm about to give you a case, Link. The assignment of your career— at least thus far." Levellier leaned forwards, and the taut leather of his desk chair groaned like a living thing. "I need one good detective, and you're it. Someone who can keep quiet, someone who can can work. You'll report directly to me. Do you understand?"  
  
Link blinked, then continued without hesitation.  
  
"What's the assignment?"  
  
In one fluid movement, Levellier slid a folder across the desk. Documentary evidence. Link reached for it, thumbing it open cautiously— to the sight of blood and broken glass.  
  
"You ever heard of Cross Marian?"

 

* * *

 

It had become quite late indeed, but the Boulevard never slept.  
  
Road Kamelot hummed, curled up in the passenger seat of Tyki's beautiful black Chevrolet. The broad, swing hem of her tea dress pooled around her knees. It was a lovely dress, really; clean-pressed white rayon linen cinched with a chiffon bow. She matched it neatly with white stockings and black Mary Janes. She could've been any girl, any tourist.  
  
She wasn't.  
  
Outside her window, the strip was practically screaming with life. Manic panic, helter-skelter. From the corner of her eye, a thousand neon lights competed for her attention, advertising diners and pop and Budweiser. Distantly, she could hear the sweeping musical score of whatever picture was playing down the street— and above that, more present, was the mechanical trills of the casino. If she took a deep breath in, she could catch the rich, intermingling scents of car exhaust, beer, blood, and candyfloss.  
  
Well, she'd seen enough neon to last her a lifetime. Back in Vegas, they'd hit banks all up the valley before driving downstate to shake things up. Instead, she thumbed through a newspaper idly; the words lit by that hot, lurid pink glow.  
  
She'd never hit a casino before. Maybe they should try it.  
  
"I thought you'd be a little starstruck," Tyki was saying. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. All these film palaces. Didn't you used to say you were going to marry Humphrey Bogart?"  
  
"Tyki, I don't need those silly silver screen detectives anymore," Road protested. She looked up at him earnestly. "Out here in Hollywood, they've got the real deal. Like _him_."  
  
She turned her copy of _The Los Angeles Bookman_ over, and pointed to the first page. The face of a young man with a scar over one eye was brought into fantastic relief. He was frowning thoughtfully over a cigarette, apparently unaware he was having his picture taken. Tyki's expression remained neutral, even bored as he skimmed the headline. As his eyes took in that name, Allen Walker, private investigator.  
  
"Well, well. What a hero," Tyki deadpanned. His eyes flickered away, dancing with a silent amusement. Road was undeterred.  
  
"He's even better than Humphrey Bogart, don't you think?"  
  
"Certainly _younger_."  
  
Road smiled, pulling the newsprint close to her chest— as if the funny, pretty man with the scar could leap through and hold her back.   
  
Someday, maybe he would. She had a knack for getting her way.  
  
Road took a deep breath. If she focused, she could catch the rich, intermingling scents of car exhaust, beer, blood, and candyfloss. It was the sharp tang of money, of trouble. Hard to believe heroism could exist in a place like this. The thought that it did, that appealed to her; she wanted to roll it between her hands, put it in her teeth. Work it, chew it, swallow it; consume it whole.  
  
"I think I'll like it here after all, Tyki," she said. The night bore down on the both of them; grinning. "I think I'll like it a lot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"... Like the sharks, mad with their own blood. Chewing away at their own selves."_  
>  \- (The Lady From Shanghai, 1947)
> 
>   
> you know you're in for the long haul when the main pair doesn't interact within the first chapter. forgive me, please, as i set up these multiple plotlines. ;;
> 
> this is definitely a niche thing, but this fic is a passion project. i love dgm, and i love classic cinema. hopefully, i'll have a lot of fun with this. you can anticipate updates roughly every two weeks, i'd say. also, yulma and lavilena will likely be tagged, later on! er, unless i catch the laviyuu bug, which does happen sometimes.
> 
> you can find on tumblr at hurryupfic. special thanks to diekrahe for being my eternally-patient sounding board.


	2. detour

In all the golds and greens of August, the morning was rich with a fresh sort of warmth. All the same, Allen felt cold.  
  
The office was empty, empty save for the smell of stale cigarettes. Allen threw up a window, letting the summer breeze waft through, as if it could wash out both the scent of summer dust and his own mounting restlessness. The light that touched his skin was pale white and without temperature; it went no deeper than the surface of his skin.  
  
At times like these, he couldn't help but think of Mana.  
  
Not because Cross' death could be compared to Mana's in any way, but-- well. Allen felt a knot forming in his stomach. The thing was, when Allen conjured the memory of Mana's face, it was solid and well-meaning. Something like what Allen had always imagined a father's should be. If someone like Allen ever deserved something like a father. And there was a certainty in that, in Allen's resolve to him.  
He felt he could use a little of that certainty now.  
  
Cross had given Allen a place to stay, sure. Kept him fed. Taught Allen to play cards. How to rig a game of blackjack and cheat a crime boss out five hundred; how the barest flick of the wrist could decide the spin of the wheel. Yet Cross' goodwill, Allen would learn, was never really goodwill.  
A one-time saviour and a lifelong headache-- did the one cancel out the other?  
  
He slumped down hard into his seat, loosening his tie. He felt as if Cross was screwing with his head from even beyond the grave. Probably laughing up a storm as he did it, too; lighting a thick cigar and bothering the Devil for another scotch on the rocks.  
  
_The bastard._  
  
He cast a long glance across the office. Three hard-backed chairs, including the one he was sitting on. A blue swivel chair that Lavi had claimed for his own. Their desks, five green filing cases, a calendar littered with both Lenalee's careful penmanship and Lavi's quick, bulleted notes. A washbowl in a stained wood cupboard. The white rack that was littered with scarves that had not been touched since the passing winter. The red telephone on his desk. He stared at it. It stared back.  
  
He wondered if Anita had called him on the presupposition he'd feel compelled to investigate his former mentor's death. Maybe she'd even been banking on it, dropping him the tip while the scene of his death would still be fresh. Why not wait a few days, then read all about in the paper? Let the LAPD clean up the mess of one criminal. Let them handle any wannabe gangster who'd angle to replace him. As if that was even possible. Cross was a cheat and a sleaze, but a good one. The world wouldn't see such trouble made manifest ever again. The proof of that was in the charming, crooked tilt to his smile.  
  
Not that he'd ever spared very many smiles for Allen.  
  
Was just a matter of time," Allen said to the emptiness of the room, to the silent telephone. "Always getting involved with the wrong rackets. Always getting me involved, too."  
  
The sound of his own voice reverberated through the room with a hollow echo.  
  
"A matter of time," he repeated. The words cut all wrong. Too soft. Always too soft. If there was one thing Cross might've agreed with Kanda with on, it was that.  
He turned to his desk, flipping through cases, Lavi's notes the finalised report Lenalee had drawn up for some studio director, focusing on nothing. Overhead, he could hear the ticking of the clock passing judgement with each jerky movement of the minute hand.  
  
_Bastard mentor._  
  
The clock ticked, then boomed on the hour. Allen stood abruptly, grabbing his coat with him as he went. He pulled it on, tugging the collar in close to his chin.  
  
Allen had never especially liked to leave a debt hanging over him.

 

* * *

 

He took a taxi to the scene. It zigzagged its through the Los Angeles strip with lawless speed. Fine by him. He gave the driver a dollar, and, without bothering for the change, stepped out onto the street.

  
All down the boulevard, the solid and cool-looking buildings surrounded him like a great vertical sail. By comparison, the motel would have been very easy to overlook if it weren't for the great yellow tape barrier blocking the steps leading up inside. Boys on bicycles came by, stopped to gawk at the edges of the police tape, and were inevitably scattered like birds by the reproachful glares of officers in navy blue. automobile exhaust, sunlight rising from hot walls, the scent trees gave off in warm weather.  
  
Allen hovered by the edge of the tape, too, though he didn't have a bicycle and could no longer consider himself a boy.  
  
"Excuse me, officer?"  
  
Allen waved a cop over. Junior officer, by the looks of it. He was young and soft-faced, looking for all the world like he didn't quite have what it took to fill out the harsh press of his uniform. He came to the edge of the tape, brows knit together. Wary.  
  
"Can I help you, sir?"  
  
"Uh, yes. I live in that building right there," Allen bit his bottom lip, feigning nervousness. He pointed vaguely to the building to their left, which he had never seen before in his life and was only _maybe_ residential. "We've been watching the ruckus from our window all day now, but haven't any idea what's going on down here."  
  
"Right," the officer agreed, voice taut. Allen went on, eyes very wide.  
  
"Now, sir, my wife's been frightened something awful; thinks it might be a bomb threat. For her sake, do you think you could tell me a bit about what's going on?"  
  
"It's not a bomb threat," the junior officer said slowly, hesitant. Allen nodded vigorously, encouraging him.  
  
"Of course not, officer. I keep telling her, if it was a bomb threat, they'd have evacuated us a long time ago. The LAPD knows that they're doing, you know?"  
  
"Well." The officer puffed up just a little bit. "That's true."  
  
Still nodding, Allen reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. His fingers closed around a pack of Chesterfields. He withdrew it, tapping it with two fingers. It was mostly full. He'd bought it about two and a half weeks ago.  
  
"Cigarette?"  
  
The officer's shoulders slumped, and he sighed. The full, longing force of exhaustion was visible in his stance. Standing around looking tough certainly took its toll, apparently. "God, yes."  
  
Allen hummed, pulled out his silver matchbook, and lit the policeman's before his own. They both inhaled deeply. The taste of smoke permeated his whole mouth; he could feel it sticking to his teeth. Foul. Smoking had its appeal, sure, but it was a dirty, slavish kind. He'd need a glass of water once this was all over.  
  
"Look," Officer Babyface said, releasing a puff of smoke from his mouth. "I can't say much, but-- they found a body out on the back balcony."  
  
"A _body_?" Allen put one hand over his heart as if shocked. "My God, that's terrible. Just the one?"  
  
He blinked, disconcerted. "Uh, yeah. Why?"  
  
Allen smiled uneasily. "I suppose it just seems like a lot of fuss for one body." Remembering he was holding a lit cigarette, Allen lifted it to his mouth and took another short drag before continuing. He used the moment's silence to think, hard, about what he could possibly ask while still maintaining an air of relative innocuousness. "Was it-- was it drugs?"  
  
"Well. A nearby resident first called on the sound of gunshots."  
  
"I... see."  
  
"But I haven't _seen_ the body or anything. You know."  
  
"Right." Allen pursed his tip around the filter of his cigarette, making a fleeting effort to visualise the crime; Cross' body, supine or slumped against the floor. Or bed. Or even some balcony railing. While it was fresh, the blood must have been as red as his hair.

He was tempted to ask about the weapon in particular that had sounded the shots-- however, he was almost sure it'd be a bust. This one was the bottom of the barrel. Time to seek higher ground, metaphorically speaking. He did a quick scan of the scene, trying to pick the most important players out.

His eyes landed on what he assumed was a plainclothes officer; a certified crime scene investigator, maybe. He came down the steps of the building to speak with another uniformed cop, then moved to write with blistering intent in a red spiral notebook. He was the only personnel out of uniform. Kind of a looker, too, with his neatly braided blonde hair. Allen nodded in his direction, trying to keep the gesture innocuous. "Hey, is that a civilian?"  
  
"Huh?" The junior officer followed Allen's line of vision, then hardened. "Oh, no. That's the Detective Sergeant. Link, I think it was. Anyhow, he's with homicide, and this is _his_ case. He'd above _my_ pay-grade."  
  
There was a hint of animosity in his tone. Allen frowned.  
  
"How's he doing?"  
  
The officer scoffed, glancing just once over his shoulder before leaning in to speak in an increasingly conspiratorial tone. "Brown nosing prig, in my opinion. Bitched at me because I wouldn't wear a tie pin." He blanched, cigarette still smouldering between his lips. "Uh, wait, you're not a journalist, are you?"  
  
"Not at all, honest," Allen laughed quietly, loving the answer, and loving that it was true. Abruptly, he stubbed the unwanted cigarette out against the wall and let it fall to the street. He rummaged in the pockets of his trench coat and withdraw a spiral notepad. "You wouldn't happen to have a pen, officer?"  
  
The junior officer looked thoroughly flummoxed, but withdrew a black ballpoint pen from his coat pocket. Allen took it gratefully, then went to work, writing rapidly across the surface of his pad. The officer looked on, growing anxious.  
  
"You sure you're not a journalist?"  
  
"I'm positive, thank you." Allen tore the top sheet off of the pad, and folded it into quarts discreetly. He held it out to the officer. "Could you do me a favour and give this to Mr. Link, please?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Ah, homeowners' business. Nothing you need concern yourself with, officer."  
  
"Well. Alright," he responded, cautious. He took the slip of paper out of Allen's gloved hands and into his own. He looked very much like he was itching to read it himself. Allen found he wouldn't mind too terribly, so long as it did eventually find its way into Det. Link's hands. Allen tucked the pen in the officer's breast pocket promptly, then turned to leave, doing his best not to think of the trouble ahead and failing magnificently.  
  
From behind the yellow tape, the officer called out to him.  
  
"You tell your wife not to worry, you hear?"  
  
"Wife?" Allen blinked, faltering for a brief moment before breaking out into that same sunny smile. "Oh, right. Right, I'll be sure to tell her."

 

* * *

 

The coroner crouched down, observing the body of Cross Marian with a professional seriousness. He fingered the head, peered at the bruise on the temple. Moved the head around with both hands, felt the man's ribs. He lifted a lax dead hand and stared at the fingernails. He let it fall. Watched it fall. He took a long moment to squint down the bright patch of blood between Cross' eyes, the indentation of a bullet in his brains. Then, he stepped back and opened his bag and took out a printed pad of D.O.A. forms and began to write over a carbon.  
  
On the air of the room, a rather heavy cologne struggled with the smell of death and lost. Although defeated, it was still there.  
  
Returning inside, Link leaned against the back wall, using his time to leaf through the preliminary file that had been provided to him earlier that day. It was unusual, Link thought, to expend any energy investigating the murders of known criminals-- and Marian Cross had been mixed up in the wrong business since the Prohibition. Syndicate-controlled gambling, mostly. Let them kill each other and sweep up the bodies. That was a typically LAPD line of thinking. Not how Link would have it, but he could sympathise. However, if someone was trying to move in on syndicate-controlled gambling by taking out big racketeers? That was a problem.  
  
Still, Link liked to think that there could be justice for Cross. That there could be justice for anyone.  
  
His own inspection of Cross was less medical. Cross' old-fashioned custom revolver remained holstered beneath his coat; it's magazine was still full. Cross hadn't even had the chance to defend himself. With as much respect as could be afforded to the dead, he thumbed through Cross' pockets. A pack of cigarettes. A flimsy matchbook, the kind you could pick up at any dive. A wallet. Link thumbed through this. Ten dollars and a dirty, dog-eared card for what looked like a florist. The address was impossible to make out. Useless. He took it with him, regardless.  
  
Redirecting his focus, he turned the matchbook over in his hands, then frowned at the image printed on the back. The logo of a smoking gun. The matchbook was branded with some bar he'd never heard of-- or nightclub, maybe. General's.  
  
He flipped the matchbook open. There were about four left. He took that as an indication that he'd picked up this particular book semi-recently. Printed just above the line of matches was the establishment's slogan-- _Why not get in trouble?_  
  
Link could think of a few reasons.  
  
"You ever heard of a bar named General's?" He tapped the matchbook, addressing the coroner. The coroner glanced up from his paperwork, blinking from behind thick glasses.  
  
"No, I don't think so."  
  
"Hm."  
  
Link stood, taking a few paces away from the body. He slipped the matchbook into the pocket of his overcoat. That could be his place to start.  
  
"Uh, sir?" A junior officer came to the edge of the room. His eyes widened at the sight of the body, then jumped across the room to avoid it. Typical recruit. Maybe his first body.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I was told to give this to you," he continued. He extended a note in Link's direction. Link didn't even blink.  
  
"By whom?"  
  
"Some civilian jack. I don't know. Didn't seem like a journalist."  
  
Link took it, unfolding it slowly.  
  
_I have a reputation among the LAPD, I'm sure, but perhaps you'd be willing to put that aside. Answer a few of my questions, and I might be able to help you out. - Allen Walker_  
  
Listed just beneath was an office address.  
  
Allen Walker, huh .He knew that name.  
  
"A little professional advice," Link said, tone dry. "Try not to get caught up in the schemes of private eyes before you know how to at least identify them."  
  
The junior officer paled, opening his mouth and closing it several times before settling on silence. Link sighed and waved him off without further reprimand. He looked grateful to go.

Link sighed, slumped against the wall, and thumbed through Cross' file with a renewed interest. Allen Walker. Allen Walker. Private eye didn't shoulder in on a case like this without an angle.

Link lifted his head, addressing the coroner for the second time as he folded his paperwork into a snappy black briefcase.

"Know where I can find a telephone?"

 

* * *

 

Walker's office building was a tall redbrick building that packed flats together like hospital rooms. Low-class but quiet; sunken but cool. He shouldered his way through the door and went up the stairs. The interior was walled with rough, white stucco walls; and outside the high side windows, iron grilles imitated balconies to poor effect.  
  
He stood in the long, carpeted hallway , squinting down at the address Walker had scrawled down. Just above his head, the lamplight flickered. It was stuck with the large, papery wings of moths. Some of them were still alive, buzzing faintly. Others were trapped dead and motionless against the glass. They'd flown into it on their own will, and it had scorched them.  
  
He knocked on the door twice, sharp and professional. There was a slow rustle from inside. Link waited. There was the sound of a footsteps, then a latch being undone.

The door clicked open.  
  
The man at the door was long-lashed and fresh-faced, save for the scar that drew a jagged slash over his left eye. Kind of pretty. Pretty in the way Link thoughts girls were supposed to be-- except, on closer inspection, there was something masculine there, in the lines of his neck, jaw, and shoulders.  
  
He leaned against the door frame with a deliberate friendliness, but Link was a cop. He could see the tautness there, in those lines. Someone who'd seen the worst in humanity and come to expect it. Link sometimes saw that same stance in the older homicide detectives.  
  
"Good afternoon," he said after a beat. His eyes moved over Link's face, and something flickered in his expression. It was gone just as quickly as it came, and Link cold not read it. Link slipped the scrap of paper into his pocket smoothly, meeting his eyes. They were a kind of arresting blue-grey.  
  
"Good afternoon," Link returned, crisp. "Detective Sergeant Link, with the LAPD. Though you might have already known that." reaching to hold out his badge regardless. Walker's eyes jumped over it very briefly before returning to Link's face, as if that was where the real proof. And maybe that was the case.   
  
"Well," Walker said at length. He dipped his head, and his hair fell over his eyes. He moved to push it away, and Link noticed he was wearing a pair of leather gloves. They were indoors in the middle of August. In California. A little odd. "I've got a good eye for faces."  
  
_Bet I can guess which eye_ , Link thought, thinking of the ugly scar that wound over the left. iF If it weren't for a scar like that, Walker probably could've made it in Hollywood. He had the right kind of charismatic good looks.  
  
"That seems an advantage," Link said instead, ever the diplomat. Walker smiled.  
  
"A fair one."  
  
"You _are_ Allen Walker, right?"  
  
"That's me."  
  
"Then I'll start by saying I'm very sorry for your loss." Walker blinked, expression uncertain.  
  
"I don't know if you could call it a loss."  
  
"You were Cross Marian's apprentice, so I've heard," Link said. "You have every reason to consider it a loss."

The thought seemed to agitate Walker. He carded a hand through his hair again, smiling a cold slash of a smile that managed to seem more grim than it was mirthful. "Apprentice, right. Does that make me a suspect?"

"I've not yet decided."  
  
Walker opened the door wide, then retreated back into the apartment. For a moment, Link thought this was his invitation inside, but he was barely over the threshold before Walker had returned-- this time, with a long, tan coat slung over one shoulder.  
  
"This talk of Cross Marian is putting a seriously bad taste in my mouth," Walker said. "I'm gonna grab a bite."  
  
Link's brows creased, half in confusion, half in annoyance. "Wait, you're just going to leave?"  
  
"Well, so to speak," Allen shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. Link stared at him, deadpan.  
  
"I'm in the middle of an _investigation_."  
  
"Which is why I'm inviting you to tag along."  
  
Before Link could protest, Allen had shut the door behind him and was heading down the hallway towards the staircase. He picked up his step, following Walker down and into the street.  
  
The walk gave him an opportunity to observe Walker in profile. He couldn't be much older than twenty years old, with his breezy expression and rumpled suit.  
Allen lead him to a diner that was sat on the same corner as his apartment building; the kind of cramped, neon-lit kind you could find on any street of any major city, populated by flocks of teenage girls blowing globes of bubblegum over milkshakes and homeless men who mumbled incoherently over their soup.  
They sat on either side of a red velour booth. The booth closest to the door, Link noted; he wondered if it might be intentional. A beam of sunlight came through the blinds. The diner was thick with the scent of warm bread and split pea broth.  
  
The waitress came over, looking bored and vaguely resentful in her candy-striped uniform. She seemed to perk up at the sight of Walker, however, and addressed him by name. A regular, apparently.  
  
She cocked her head in Link's direction, rough. "Who's your friend, Allen?"   
  
"Business associate, more like it," Allen responded, scratching the back of his head. Her eyes became as round as dinner plates.  
  
 "Client?"  
  
"Hardly," Link interjected, wry.He ordered an apple pie. Walker ordered "the usual," whatever that was, and coffee for the both of them.  
  
The waitress went off, and Link focused his eyes on Allen, intent.  
  
"Care to explain your relationship with the deceased?"  
  
Walker frowned. He leaned back in his seat, reaching into his coat for a carton of cigarettes. He extended it in Link's direction with a playful shake. "You want a smoke, officer?"  
  
Link didn't move a muscle. "No thank you, sir."  
  
" _Sir_ ," Walker repeated-- not mocking, but thoughtful. He shuffled the pack of Chesterfields thoughtfully, but didn't light one himself like Link thought he might. Instead, he tucked it back into his own breast pocket. Link thought he actually looked a little relieved. "And they call _me_ formal. Hey, you solve a few cases, officer?"  
  
"Sure, a few." The waitress returned with their coffee. She set two mugs on the table and slowly poured out that dark, rich-smelling stuff. Her acrylic nails clattered noisily against the pot. "Heard you've solved a few yourself."  
  
"I guess I have. But I'm no cop, of course. " Walker hummed, and went to work fixing up his coffee with cream. Link leaned back in his seat, not yet touching his own cup.  
  
"Would you want to be?"  
  
"Ha. When hell freezes over, maybe." Walker took a sip of his coffee and hummed.  
  
"Not crazy about the force? Or the law in general?"  
  
Walker spoke with his lips still pressed against the brim. "Most cops would argue those two are one and the same."  
  
"And on most days, I would agree," Link said, measured. "Until, of course, one of them lets a guilty man walk, or gets rough with a witness, or pull the trigger a breath too early. The force represents the law, but it's officers are still men. So are private eyes. A rookie investigator could pull that trigger, too-- just as quick, if not quicker."  
  
"The private eye pulls the trigger, the private eye goes to prison. Some LAPD recruit pulls it, they give him a medal. I wouldn't call that just."  
  
The waitress returned with her tray full of food. She put Link's pie down, and something that looked like a full brunch platter. Walker's regular, apparently. Link pulled his plate closer. The pie smelled good, but Link thought he could do better.  
  
"Did someone pull the trigger on you, Walker?"  
  
"Not yet." Walker leaned over and stole the cherry off the top of Link's pie. Without breaking eye contact once, he popped it into his mouth. Link could just catch the warm, pink curve of Allen's tongue. He frowned, letting it go without a fight. Instead, he looked away, refocusing his attention on stirring more sugar than was truly necessary into his coffee. "Now about Cross Marian, officer--"  
  
"Not officer," Link interrupted. "The rank is _detective_."  
  
Allen's eyes gleamed with a renewed interest. "That's right, huh. You and me both, then." He took another long sip from his mug, a bite of his meal. Link continued in Allen's stead.  
  
"Your note piqued my interest. I checked Cross' file, asked a couple questions. Your name came up. They called you his apprentice."  
Allen's expression darkened. He swallowed hard. "That I was. Around the time I was twelve, I lost... I lost my family. Cross took me in. Until the time I was about seventeen, that is."  
  
"He took you in? Were you two close?"  
  
"I wouldn't say that. The man was a fucking asshole-- er, pardon my language. He was a drunk and a womaniser, as well as a flagrant criminal. But I was a kid, and needed somewhere to go."  
  
Link considered it. Cross Marian, the crook who'd turned a couple small-time gambling rackets into big players. Allen Walker, the self-stylized champion of the people.  
  
"You say you're his apprentice, but you don't seem to ply similar trades."  
  
"I guess you could say sleuthing is my second trade. Cross taught me to play cards. And to win," Walker said. "He owed money to a lot of bad people, and those debts were turned over to me. It was his condition for taking me in, I guess you could say. As soon as I was able, I washed my hands of the business. I'm glad I did."  
  
"When did you last see Cross Marian?"  
  
"I've only seen him sporadically over the last few years. Usually against my will. I ran into him on a case, what was it... six months ago. He wasn't involved, really; it just happened. Then nothing. Then I get a phone call saying he's been found dead in some motel room."  
  
Link curled his hands around his coffee. It was still warm, though quickly growing cool. "Did he have any enemies?"  
  
A laugh burst out of Walker; the sound seemed to surprise the both of them.  
  
"Enemies? Just about everyone he ever met. He was a cheater and a thief. No idea who'd have wanted to shoot him, though. Dead men can't pay debts."  
  
Walker leaned forwards. His expression became oddly intent.  
  
"You know," he went on, "for a cop, you're not very tall."  
  
Link frowned, taken aback. "Neither are you."

Walker just nodded as as if this was, in fact, an excellent observation.  
  
"Look at us both. We're both detectives, we both like coffee, and neither of us are very tall. Maybe we should help each other out."  
  
He had the feeling Walker was coming close to making his pitch. "In spite of your opinions of the force?"  
  
"I have opinions on the force, it's true. But you seem alright." Link tried his best not to feel flattered. It was a difficult undertaking. There was something very personal about Walker's smile; all warm and soft. It felt too good-- made Link feel like he was being conned. "Do they teach you to gamble in the LAPD?"  
  
"We don't like to take unnecessary risks, if that's what you're saying.  
  
"Well, sometimes, in order to reach your preferred definition, a little risk is required," Walker's eyes dropped, as if he were addressing the dregs of his coffee as opposed to Link. "Trust can be a risk. But I'm invested in the case. Cross and I, there was bad blood, but-- I want to see this through. You understand?"  
  
The thing was, Link didn't understand. Not really.  
  
Still, there was something in the tone of Walker's voice that gave him pause. Something that felt real. Slowly, Link reached into his pocket, feeling around his fingertips until they closed around Cross' matchbook. He withdrew it and, in place of a response, set it on the table in front of Walker. Walker frowned, picking it up and opening it. He was still wearing his gloves. Most mysteriously, he'd worn them throughout the entire meal.  
  
"Do you recognise this?"  
  
"Oh." Walker blinked down at the logo. In creamy black leather, one fingertip followed the trail of smoke leading from that pistol, lost in the shape and feel of some memory. "I do, actually."  
  
"This was on Cross' body," Link went on to say, insistent. "It's not much, but it's a lead."  
  
Walker's eyes flashed. "Let me join your investigation, and I can take you there."  
  
"... Deal."  
  
"Excellent," Walker grinned. An odd sort of grin-- was it too late for Link to wonder if he was making a deal with the Devil? He folded his hands together, looking for all the world like that cat who got the cream. "So long as you're prepared for the possibility our excursion may offend your sensibilities."  
  
"Thank you, but I think I can handle a seedy bar," Link said, dry.  
  
Walker went on smiling. He smiled a tight-lipped smile, looking like he was trying very hard not to outright laugh.  
  
"Oh, it's not a bar," he said. "It's a brothel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing says "trite and overdone" like an exposition-heavy scene set in a restaurant, but this is vintage hollywood! the playing field comes with a few dead horse tropes. [like this! ](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GoingByTheMatchbook)
> 
> also, an amazing artist has done some _amazing_ artwork for the noir!verse. [check it out here](http://warie-lym.tumblr.com/post/151259377177/doodles-for-hurryupfics-noir-au-0-allen-co), and give them a follow, please!
> 
> anyways, there'll be more time to explore in the next few chapters, now that this is all set up. thank you for your patience. ;;
> 
> hurryupfic @ tumblr.


	3. white heat

Last day before the printing deadline meant Lavi was crouched over his Underwood typewriter, punching stories into the keys. Meant he was jumping from his desk to his reference shelf, then the telephone, then back to his desk— restless, but in his element, turning the jagged chicken-scratch of his notes into something fit for human consumption.

His handwriting probably wouldn't be so fantastically awful if he just took his time to print it neatly. However, Lavi was the type of person whose thoughts moved faster than his hands could move— more often than not, his script devolved into a wild, janky scrawl for the sheer urge to get everything down before he inevitably forgot. The real trick was deciphering his own hasty notes later on and transforming it into something worth publishing. 

Lavi didn't work for _The Los Angeles Bookman_ so much as he was _The Los Angeles Bookman_ ; it was his inheritance and his charge. Part gossip insider, part political polemic, full champion of the truth, the publication itself survived on one simple maxim: wherever you go, there will always be a market for the absolute, unedited truth. 

_You set the record straight,_ Gramps had told him, jabbing him in the stomach with a strength that did not match his skinny old arms. He'd kept the spirit of a wartime journalist until the end, the kind people either loved or hated, cutting all the glowing propaganda short in favour of the facts. Never one to shelter Lavi. Not from death.  You set the record straight, and you don't compromise for anything.  _The truth is all there is._  

Lavi didn't believe in a hell of a lot, but he believed in that. Was certain he always would.

At the telltale click of heels outside his door, he paused, fingers freezing over his typewriter. There was a knock, and he turned his body to face the door.

"Lavi? You home?" 

He could hear Lenalee's voice on the other end, a little muffled.

"Door's open," he called back. There was a pause, then the door clicked open, and she came through.

It would've been easy to write Lenalee off as vulnerable or even naive. After all, she had such soft eyes. Soft violet eyes that pulled you in and made you feel taken care of, in a way. That, in combination with her diplomatic manner of speaking, she projected the kind of poised femininity men often failed to take seriously. And a terrible failing, too, because Lena had a tougher constitution than almost anyone he'd ever met and a near miraculous sixth sense for bullshit.

"Afternoon," Lavi said, struck with a smile that was (in all probability) dopey as hell.  Nothing made Lavi so weak as a pretty girl, especially one who could almost certainly kick his ass across West Coast. 

"Good afternoon," Lenalee returned. Her brows creased into a frown. Suddenly, Lavi realized she wasn't looking at him at all, but instead his desk. He looked, too. A thick sheaf of papers, some carefully pinned with freshly developed photographs, some stuck with red ink annotations. An open bottle of cognac. A crumbling, overflowing ruin of an ashtray. 

"You know, you really ought to take better care of yourself," Lenalee said evenly. She walked inside, pulling her coat off, moving closer to circle the very desk that seemed to offend her to terribly. Lavi rolled his eyes.

"I'm here for a good time, not a long time."

Lenalee reached over, grabbing an old, rolled-up edition of the _Bookman_ lying around, and smacked it over Lavi's head lightly. Sort of playful-like.

"That's a terrible attitude."

Lavi just grinned, waving a hand dismissively.

"You kiddin'? It's the only attitude a person can have, these days."

"Well, _I_ disagree." She held up the newspaper, tapped it against her chin as if reconsidering. "I suppose I can at least count on you to get some rest, every now and then. It always frustrates me to see Allen keep himself up during investigations."

"You know how it is. Can't stop a man on a mission." Lavi twisted to leaned back in his seat, working out a knot in his shoulder that had developed from an hour's worth of hunching forwards. "What brings you to my far corner, anyhow?"

Lenalee's smile was downright rueful.

"You're always a wreck before printing deadlines. I just wanted to stop by and make sure you remembered to eat— and no, you _can't_ drink your dinner out of a bottle."

"You'd be surprised."

Lenalee ignored him gracefully, continuing in a measured tone.

 "Also, your plants are looking a little limp."

"My... oh,  _shit_ ." Lavi turned to look at the pots lined up near the window. Their leaves flopped over the sides in abject despair.

"Have you been watering them?

"Well, uh. _About_ that."

Without another word, she stole an empty whiskey glass from the desk and went off to the bathroom.

Suddenly a little self-conscious, he gave the his apartment a swift a once-over. A two-room joint with a bathroom; all he needed, and all he really wanted. Every available surface was cluttered with old, copies of the Times, battered dictionaries, fountain pens and fresh film. If you pressed deeper inside, you'd find these paper trails going on forever; notebooks on the counter tops, gossip magazines and scholarly writings scattered haplessly atop his bed. A house full of words and not much else. 

He wondered, briefly, if a person's personal environment said anything about their personality. Lavi had been to Lenalee's apartment only about twice, but he thought about it often. It was neat and well-cared for, furnished with warm woods and soft, knitwork throws. He remembered the photographs framed on her writing desk, the carefully cut newspaper clippings that hinted at her brother's research; and, most memorably, a tiny hand-wound music box whose handle was worn from many plays. Lenalee's heart was close to home.

He tried to connect that same logic to the other people in his life— Allen's homey spot above the city, full of half-unpacked boxes and velvet-smooth vinyls. As for Kanda... well. He'd never seen his place from the inside. Kind of a pain. Well, maybe that just suited the metaphor all the more. Of course, he'd never seen Kanda from the inside, either. Very firmly shut doors, right there; heart boarded over like it had gone out of business. And maybe maybe Lavi kinda understood that, too."

The sound of rushing water, and then, she was back. She dumped the full glass into an unhappy looking plant, and the dry soil quickly leeched it up. Lavi chuckled.

"What would I do without you, Lenalady?"

"Your houseplants would certainly suffer." 

"Ha. Damn straight." 

His eyes flickered back to his typewriter, and he punched the next phrase in. His next words were undercut by their mechanical click. Lenalee wandered back in his direction, plucked at one of his notepads, observing that which was highlighted in blocky red ink. "The truth and nothing but the truth, huh?"

"The truth and nothing but the truth," he echoed.

"You really believe that?"

"Hm? 'Course I do." He paused, realising he'd incorrectly typed a word. Hurrying to correct it before the ink dried, his next words came out vague and distracted. "Y'know, the truth will set you free and all that junk."

Although he couldn't see her face, he could hear the frown in her voice.

"Recently I've just been... wondering." 

Lavi said nothing. Gently, he tugged his sheet of paper free from his typewriter, rubbing an abrasive eraser against the error in slow, painstaking strokes. She took this as encouragement to continue. 

"I did a background check for some up-and-coming studio. They'd taken a hit with a big scandal sometime last year, wanted to catch the next before it could come up. The— the casting director was really polite with me, you know? The kind of client I like working with." 

"And?"

He could feel the full weight of her lithe body leaning against the desk in a defeated slump. 

"Like they asked, I looked into the young starlet they were thinking of hiring. Turns out, she didn't go to acting school like she'd set. She came off the bus from Chicago, where she'd been stripper."

"Hm," Lavi said, tucking the corrected sheet back into place.

"I got to thinking, well. I could tell the truth and ruin this girl's career— or tell a lie, and potentially ruin a whole studio."

"Well, what did you do?"

She didn't say anything, just toyed with the sleeve of her. Those pretty violet eyes didn't look too soft anymore. For the flash of a moment, they were damn near grim. Lavi couldn't push her for answers, but he could certainly take a wild guess. 

He reached across his desk, forefinger circling a half-emptied pack of Chesterfields. Him and his damn Barbara Stanwycks. He'd told Lenalee, once, that she looked even better than Barbara Stanwyck; she'd laughed that one off pretty quick. Then again, he'd never put Lena between his teeth and tried to smoke his life away through her, and he doubted he'd ever have the guts to try. Nothing made Lavi so weak as a pretty girl— but Lenalee, Lenalee wasn't his girl.

Never would be. 

"Come on, pal," he said, tone light. He pushed the smokes away, instead moving to stand. 

"You're right. I gotta get some food into me. It'll be my treat."

Her expression, tense with doubt, relaxed. Her eyes seemed to shift, returning slowly to the softness he was so terribly fond of. More violet than beautyberries; more violet than all the lavender in the Provence. Lavi would know. He'd been there.

"Real food, alright? No take-out."

"Spoilsport."

 

* * *

 

There was a restless scurry to the evening. The rats of L.A. scratched and crawled at his periphery. Some grew brave and scuttled close, only to be frightened off when Link turned his head to face them. Their big eyes seemed to glow through the semi-darkness, yellow and brown. Only about half of these rats were animals. 

Central Avenue was lined with dusky nightclubs of poor repute. Undaunted by the night, they kept their doors flung open, filling the streets with the roaring thump of local music. The black population had settled into the quarter and brought the spirit of jazz to the streets. The lush sound of it drowned out the old music of the quarter, those vaudeville cabarets that had gone out of fashion a good ten years ago. You could see their empty theaters boarded up all down the street, awaiting the day they'd be subsumed and replaced by the next big thing. 

Although the quarter was first and foremost considered coloured, the reality was a little more diverse; creating a surprising air of interraciality. Here, among the dance halls, liquor haunts, and poorly disguised brothels were hotels, moneylenders and barbers. These were run by Italians, by Mexicans, by Chinese, by Jewish men who whistled still in spite of a nightmare not ten years gone (or perhaps in defiance of them).

The mixed quality of the area, inevitably, also characteristically marked the area's prostitution industry.  Japanese houses of ill-repute were confused with screens, paper lanterns, and dense perfumes. A Polish woman in leathers watched him with the self-indulgent grin of a grooming cat. Down the street, Latin girls in the colourful approximation of festival dress smoked and gossiped on the concrete steps as if they were at home. In the gathering evening, women from all over the world smiled at Link from their open windows. Some stood on the doorsteps, beckoning for him with their hands. Some of the rooms were exposed to the street. Often, only a curtain concealed the beds. 

Link kept himself firmly rooted to the street corner, checking his watch far too often. He'd left his car around the block, having walked up beneath the sputtering arc lights to the street corner Walker had said to meet him at.

His objection with all this revelry wasn't professional, but rather personal. In fact, he'd prefer if his chief concern was the lawfulness of everything he saw. That way, he could feel more coldly and more objectively. Instead, he felt a gut pull of discomfort.

All about the quarter, you could almost smell the obsession of men. He could see them inside these lit, open houses. They waited and drank scotch on plush, red futons without looking at one another, gaze lingering over the bodies of the women that came traipsing through, many of which were in states of partial undress. Their hungry-eyed preoccupation with sex seemed mechanistic, vulgar. Link found it extremely unnerving.  If one peeped in through any door of any Central Avenue brothel, they might catch the shadow of embraces. The very thought somehow nauseated Link.

He hoped without hope that that familiar nausea would clear itself up, one of these days, before it devolved into some full-blown illness.

He focused on the sound of nightclubs, listening to the distant trill and blare of saxophones. He felt oddly worried their gaiety, their peculiar genius would become muted into the sounds of poverty and lawlessness, that smoking trash heap of humanity. 

The sound of footsteps coming up behind him. Link turned his head. A woman in a sheath-skirt came up to his side, smiling a calculated smile. She was so obvious in her intent that Link nearly physically cringe.

"Hey there, handsome."

She bit her lip and turned her head a little, gaze drawing across Link's face slowly. She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theater curtain. Link wondered if that little act was supposed to be attractive. He didn't particularly think it was. Then again, he'd never been very good at thinking the right things about women. He was vaguely certain that it was, like anything else, an acquired talent. 

"Good evening... ma'am," he said, bland beyond belief. 

"Ma'am? What a nice boy, you." Her hair was a near silvery blonde, but her eyebrows were suspiciously dark. She began toying with the front of her blouse, tugging the neckline lower until Link could see the beginning of a very lacy white bra. He averted his eyes immediately. "You wanna have some fun?" 

 "Uh."

"Don't be that way," she purred, moving to press into his space. She smiled coquettishly, snuggling her body up against Link. Familiar nausea. "Come on, daddy-o. You really aren't bad-looking, you know. I'll give you a discount, how 'bout it?"

He took a quick, janky step to the side, shrugging her off as politely as one could.  "No thank you."

She advanced, undeterred. With the slick whisper of silk, one sleeve of her blouse began to slide down her shoulder. 

"You don't have to be shy, baby—"

Link coughed, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat. "Ma'am, I really—"

"Don't bother with him," a third voice interjected, very lightly. Link turned his head to see Allen Walker coming up the walkway. "He's a priest."

Link shot Walker a desperate glance. Walker just shrugged, the amusement in his eyes betraying his innocent expression.

The hooker looked at Link doubtfully. "You're pretty young for a priest."

Link despaired quietly.  
  
"I had a... divine calling."

She fixed him with an odd, somewhat disbelieving look. Hurriedly, he made the sign of the cross.

"Fine," she sighed. She tugged her blouse back into place with one artless yank, moving briskly to shoulder past the two of them. "Waste of my time."

"Have a good evening!" Walker waved her off.

"God bless," Link added hurriedly. Then, once she was out of earshot, he leaned in close to Walker and hissed, "A priest?"

"You sort of strike me as the religious type," Walker offered, scratching the back of his neck with one hand. Still gloved, too. "Am I right?"

Link thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

"Huh."  Walker's silver-blue eyes grew narrow. He appeared to be searching Link's face. With a start, Link realized that he recognized the look there. He'd seen it on his colleagues— and moreover, he'd seen it on himself. God knows Tokusa hated it. This was the look of a detective. Walker was taking in information— though Link could hardly guess at what conclusions he was making. It was disconcerting, really, how quick those eyes could go from laughting to steely. Like watching a quiet river whip up in a storm.

 Then, quick as it had come, the look was gone, replaced by Walker's trademark expression of cheerful affability. "You know, for a second, I thought you were going to arrest her."

"I was just planning to send her off with a warning," Link said. "I am technically undercover, you understand."

"Would you have arrested her otherwise?"

"I'd have preferred not to," Link admitted.

Walker nodded, seeming to consider it. He looked down the street, furtive, rubbing his hands together. The tone and tempo of the music only seemed to escalate as the sun went down, city lights blaring up with only a greater and more fervent glee in the dark. Somehow, in their artifical glare, Allen still managed looked real.

If Link hadn't already seen Allen Walker in plain sunlight, he'd have said it suited him.

Walker angled his face to look at Link.

"Well, guess that's enough chitchat," he said. He gestured down the road. "We've got an investigation to conduct, right?"

 

* * *

 

 

There was a shiny new vinyl player in the corner of General's. It played its quit music on and on, but no one seemed to be listening. Rather, the sound of it served only to fill the silence between the clinking of glasses, the low laughter of women, the nervous pacing of men. There was a bar at the far end of the room, staffed by a bored looking bartender who flipped through a magazine over the dinghy counter, backlit by a wall of a bottles of all sizes and hues. Not exactly Link's cup of tea.

"Just don't mention you're a cop," Walker advised him at the door. A few feet across from them. A women in a black chemise took a man, slick with sweat, and lead him to a nearby staircase. The bartender's eyes flicked up, watching the two of them leave, then back down to the glossy newsprint in front of him. Link looked at Walker, deadpan.

"That just seems like common sense."

"Well, that's the thing about common sense," Walker laughed softy. "You never know who's got it."

Allen motioned him forwards, and they headed up towards the bar.

"Good evening," Allen said, charming as anything, leaning against the table like it was the most natural place for him to be. "We've met before, haven't we?"

The bartender's gaze slid away from his pulp magazine. He was a broad, pink-faced man with a nose like a prize strawberry. Typical sleaze. Possibly the brothel proprietor. 

Something like recognition flickered in his eyes, and he made a low sound of surprise in the back of his throat.

"Hey, shit. You're Cross' kid, aren't you? Allen— yeah, shit, how many years has it been?" Pink Face's eyes flitted suspiciously from Walker to Link. He looked Link over without haste, without interest, as if he was looking at a slab of cold meat. Perhaps he thought of people that way. "Who's Goldilocks?"

"A priest," Link said waspishly.

"You can ease up with him," Walker said, rolling his eyes. "He's a... colleague. We're actually on an investigation. You understand, of course."

A pause. Deeply wary. "Am I being investigated?"

"Huh? I'm not, no," Allen said, smiling with a friendly reassurance that struck Link as a little devious. Pink Face's entire countenance slowly began to shift, shoulders sagging in relief, expression mellowing.

"Look at you, goddamn. Practically a man now. Remember when Cross used to drag you down here— before you went to play hero, chasing missing children and runaway husbands." He chuckled, looking thoroughly entertained by his own memory, and Link suddenly came to understand the benefit of being extremely well-connected. "Can I get something for you an' your friend? On the house, for old times' sakes."

"I don't drink," Link said, frowning, thinking about what kind of man you had to be to drag a child behind you into a brothel. Pink Face snorted.

"Christ, he _is_ a priest." 

"I'm not really here to get nostalgic," Allen interrupted, uncharacteristically blunt. Perhaps annoyed at being treated like a boy. "If you don't mind, I have a got a few questions about Marian Cross."

A beat. The bartender's face grew sombre.

"Cross, right. Rumour mill agrees he's dead, but what killed him? Drugs, booze? Some are saying he was gunned down."

Then, for the time being, Cross' end was still out of the papers, Link thought, though that could hardly last long. Allen's little friend at The L.A. Bookman likely wouldn't be of any help. All the same, Allen seemed tempted to engage this line of conversation, so Link cut in, changing the topic abruptly.

"When did you last see Cross?"

Pink Face leaned forwards, bar stool creaking beneath him.

"Maybe a week ago. Nothing out of the ordinary. Drinking and fooling around with the girls."

"Exactly a week?" From his breast pocket, Link pulled out his narrow notepad and a ballpoint pen, clicking the tab briskly. With a neat hand, Link went to work printing his notes carefully. Pink Face paused, considering it.

"No, no. More like... four days ago. Yeah. Ordered neat scotch and bitched about how his lighter was empty. Didn't fuck any of the girls, I don't think. Just came up in here and drank and got himself fawned over. The girls here are fond of him. And why not? He's got— that is, he _had_ his own kind of charm."

He tapped the table, seeming to ponder it. Then, he straightened up, snapping his fingers. "Oh, wait. Some guy came barging up in here, asking to see him. No idea about what."

"A man?" Allen asked. The rapid pace of Link's pen slowed ad he listened in.

A slow nod of affirmation. "Yeah, yeah. Came right up to my counter, asked for Marian Cross. No idea what they were talking about, but I think they might've been yelling."

"Could you provide a physical description?" Link asked.

"Dark hair, kind of stuck up all over. Tanned, but not dark. Tall, I think. Uh, maybe about his age," he gestured towards Link. Link bulleted these points, applied them to memory.

"Leave you a name?"

"Me? No. Rude fuck never bothered. Heard Cross call him Neah as they were leaving— arguing all the damn way, mind you. No idea about fuckin' what."

Link turned that over in his head, Neah,  _nay-uh_ . Unusual, in a sense. He spied a glance over at Allen, searching for any semblance of recognition— there seemed to be nothing. His face was blank, save for that calculated openness and the thread of confusion beneath it.

   
  


* * *

 

 

The rest of the interviews went by briskly, taking up only about a half hour as they went around asking the girls what they know— Allen fielding their offers with expert charm while Link, under pressure, fell behind the defence of cold professionalism.  

Dead end. They'd known Cross, sure— known him by the tone of his voice, the brandies he drank, the positions he preferred. But nothing about his death. 

Allen and Link retreated outside, escaping the smoke and smell of malt liquour. Outside, over the streets, the gold-faced moon had emerged. It was hanging through a ring of mist among the high-reaching commercial buildings. 

Link flipped through his notepad, brisk. Nothing but a name to go forwards on. Barely a name.

He'd make it work.

"Neah, Neah," Link said aloud. He ran a hand down his face, the gears in his head beginning to spin. "I'm gonna have to shift through a few police records, maybe call up a few contacts— it's a distinct enough name. If he's an underworld player the LAPD are aware of, I should be able to find more information. I suspect you've contacts of your own."

"Enough to run a name by," he answered vaguely. He leaned against the brick wall of some some small, sick business that had crawled there to die. He kept one hand in the side pocket of his coat, the other rubbed at the back of his neck. "Speaking of names— Howard Link. Is that English?"

Link blinked, thrown off by the change in topic. "No, actually. I'm told my parents immigrated from Germany some thirty-odd years ago."

"You were told?"

"I never knew them," Link said, not even flinching from it. 

"Oh." He paused for a moment, and for a moment, Link thought he was going to sit through the same old half-baked apologies— then, he continued, tone measured. "Me too, actually."

Huh. Call that an understanding.

"Add that to the list of uncanny parallels," Link said.  Allen's lips parted slowly until his teeth caught the light and glittered like knives. 

"Maybe we could start a club. _Orphan Detectives Of Average Height Who Also Like Pie._ We could hold specialty functions. A weekly bingo. A book club."

Link snorted, and Allen's eyebrows shot up to his airline. 

"Was that a _laugh_ , Detective Sergeant ?"

"Laugh? I did no such thing," Link said, hiding his smile behind the curve of his hand. Allen glowed with delight, preening like a cat. 

" _Really_."

"Most certainly not."

"Could've fooled me."

Link pressed his hand more tightly against his lips, fighting to stifle the grin that threatened to overtake the whole of his expression. God, he must have been more tired than he'd thought. Overworked, God help him— though he'd sooner die than admit it to Tokusa.

Laughter fell away, and a silence came between them. There was the blare of a trumpet, the yowl of a lovesick cat. The blare of sirens, blocks away.

"Well," Allen said eventually. The brightness was gone from those big, river-blue eyes.  Link slid his notebook back into his pocket, considering Allen carefully. His eyelashes were long and fine, faintly feminine. "We've got our clue, we've got our leads."

"Is this goodbye, then?"

"It could be." Allen looked down at his hands, plucking gently at his gloves thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, you're open to... further collaboration. For, you know. The sake of that book club."

"Just the book club?" Link frowned. Allen shrugged, guilty.

"I'm interested in hearing what you can find on this Neah with your LAPD resources," he admitted.

"Well. Likewise, with your informants," Link said, carefully.

Allen turned, standing to face Link directly. He was a little taller, Link realized. A little gangly, even— some long-limbed boy that had only just become a man. Moon-sized eyes only served to reinforce the impression of youth.

"Why don't you stop by my office tomorrow, Link?"

Was it still a manipulation, Link wondered, finding himself nodding slowly to Allen's proposal, if you had the sense to know you were being manipulated?

The two of them split, and Link went back to his car. Allen's smile, half-dangerous, flashed through his mind— along with the nagging sensation he was getting himself involved in something thoroughly more unpleasant than he'd originally anticipated.

He didn't feel like dinner and didn't feel like a show, and despite the exhaustion he could feel pressing down on him, some kind of restless energy kept him from taking his car and his badge back home for some rest. Instead, driving to the sound of the clattering rosary, he drove to Redondo beach.

He stayed there, in his car, listening to the sweep of the waves as he turned the case over in his head. A crime boss, the blood, and the bullets that had put the death in him. Neah. Allen's bright, pale charm. He waves came in, and then fell back away, like breaths.

A long time ago, back when Link was still a gangly ibis of a boy, he used to run across the pier. 

Now, he touched the beads on his mirror, wondering at  at himself as the glitter and grime of the Los Angeles River's trash rose with the black sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet, and i still found myself cutting corners. yikes. hopefully, we hear more from kanda and the noah in the new few chapters, though if there's anyone you wanna see crop up, too, i'm receptive to suggestions.
> 
> hurryupfic @ tumblr


	4. gun crazy

  
When Road had been a little girl, all she'd wanted for Christmas was a Winchester 22 short-calibre rifle— classic, with it's trimmed with a glossy wood finish, with it's bores as smooth as butter, with it's swift pump action and broad octagonal barrel. Gun ownership had been a long-standing Kamelot tradition, dating way back before the Civil War at the very least. It only made sense she'd want to claim that piece of her heritage.

Her _birthright_.  
  
Of course, she got what she wanted, as was her particular habit. It was right there, under the tree when and where she wanted it. That Christmas morning, before pudding or cake or anything else, she'd pulled that Winchester out of the box and put it together with excited, hurrying hands.  
  
That had been a long, long time ago.  
  
She'd been a little girl then, spoiled and silly and pleased enough just taking potshots at cans or cats— she made a frightening mess out of the neighbourhood strays. Her father would lean down, straighten her aim, and smile as if witnessing the most beautiful thing in the world. She'd bend her skinny knees into a crouch, curl her finger around the trigger, and bang! She fired off, legs spread, knees bent, teaching herself to stand firm against the recoil. Then, in her delight, she would twirl around and around and around in those enormous crinoline party frocks. The skirt flowed around her like the broad bloom of a tea rose.  
  
Well, Road wasn't a little girl anymore— no matter how much she might look the part. Didn't need anyone's guiding hand, for one, not anymore. Didn't need to practice, either. These days, she'd moved on to larger targets, bigger dreams and bigger sights to set her scopes on.  
  
(She did still love those dresses, of course. Loved them even better when she got them tailored to fit the slim curve of her revolver.)  
  
Out the big, glassy bank doors, she could still see Tyki waiting in the car, sitting and smoking and not doing much of anything at all. He seemed very convincingly relaxed— though Road knew he was as taut as violin strings, or maybe a tiger stalking it's prey; ready to spring at any moment.  
  
She walked up to customer desk, smiling a smile that was just _maybe_ a smirk.  
  
"Can I help you, miss?" The teller leaned forwards. Pale man. Thin lips. Eyes like the inside of an ashtray. Looked like a proper salary man. Was probably nursing a mortgage, a family-friendly Chevy, and a failing marriage. Boring, boring, boring.  
  
"I think you could, actually," Road said with a sort of conspiratorial delight. She leaned forwards so that her stomach was flat up against the edge of the table. "You see, _this a hold-up_."  
  
The teller looked blank— gosh, not all that bright, was he, huh? To make her point a little more clear, Road pushed a white bag over the counter, opened her peacoat and flashed the 4-inch barrel of her Smith  & Wesson model 38/44 revolver. It was no attack rifle, that's for sure, but it was a beautiful piece; with fixed sights and a heavy, deep blue frame. The walnut finish of the grip fit her small hand like it belonged there.  
  
"Fill the bag with cash," she told him, fingers slowly curling around the trigger. "We don't need any dead heroes, do we?"  
  
He paled further, eyes snapping up at her. "Is, is this a..."  
  
"Oh, not at all, sir. I really will blow your head off if you try and call the cops... though I don't really want to, you see. You don't _really_ interest me all that much."  
  
He complied with shaking hands.  
  
Bank robbing was, as anyone might guess, a professional for the reckless and the insane, though Road preferred to think _audacious_. Risky? Sure thing. Violent? Fantastically so. But all the same, all in all, easier than one might think— provided you had the guts.  
  
As far as Road was concerned, she could do whatever in God's name she pleased, provided she wanted it enough. Beyond maybe family, want was her sole intrinsic good. To her, it was a geas, something that could never be shaken or denied.  
  
Although the banks of Los Angeles were more lax than the average civilian might be comfortable aware, they did issue handguns to bank staff with the expectation that if there was a hold-up, they would shoot back. This ward had become slightly more efficient over the past ten years, however, with enough young army veterans in the workforce to ensure one or two paper-pushers would actually know how to aim a gun. For now, she had the staff still, counting out the money and barely breathing— but the moment she reached the door, there was the chance of a pursuit. And then certainly the cops.  
  
Walking out with a bag full of money that didn't belong to you? Not actually too tough. Keeping that money? Keeping your body fresh and intact? That's where the fun was.  
  
A bullet came after her the moment she lowered her gun to push through the door— misfired, striking one of the bank door's glass panels and causing it to shatter with an enormous, glittering crash. This from some young employee who'd stumbled to the front; not quite good enough. She fired back, but only once— sticking around wasn't such a good idea. After all, there was nothing cute about prison, was there? Behind her desk, she could see a frazzled temp leaning into the telephone.  
  
"Bye-bye."  
  
Road blew the bank employee a kiss, then backed out onto the street, where stares were being drawn to the sound of gunfire and broken glass. With a kind of catlike grace, she moved against Tyki's car, pulling with a flourish and slipping herself into the backseat.  
  
"Time to go," she said, urging Tyki gently. She curled her legs beneath her and leaned forwards, feeling the scuff of her shoes against the leather. Her gaze flickered towards the car mirror. Though her skin was soft and her lips were pink, the youth had been wrung from her eyes. She looked like a well-cared-for corpse. Felt like one, too, every now and again. "Let's get out of here, okay?"  
  
Tyki hummed around his cigarette, foot already pressed down hard against the pedal. "You don't need to tell me twice."  
  
The engine roared to life, and they made off the way they came with reckless speed— and some ten thousand in cash extra.  
  
  


* * *

  
The Homicide Desk was housed on the sixth floor, along with the rest of the Department's elite divisions— Administrative Vice, Robbery and Bunco, along with Central Warrants and the Central Detective Squad. A lot to be said about the floor itself— constant bustling, shouting, whispering behind hands, assistants coming through with paperwork, officers from all divisions ambling through to ask a favour or two— all in the thick of a wall-to-wall smoke and the resounding buzz of telephones ringing.

  
Promotion to the LAPD's sixth floor was coveted among rookie policemen— it was the domain of specialists, of career cops, of superstar detectives working big cases. You were afforded a certain added respect that you just wouldn't find working Patrol or Traffic. It was also rarely, rarely dull.  
  
There was, however, one definite downside— that Tokusa's department was a minute-long walk from his, leaving him open to pester Link just about any time he felt bored.  
  
Like now.  
  
I remember when we were trainees," Tokusa said somewhat wistfully, the small of his back pressed against Link's desk. It was just barely 8:00 AM, but he seemed to be in a good mood, smelling of fresh nicotine and the expensive coffee that he liked. Link envied his energy. "You looked so terribly awkward in your uniform. Shit, I think they'd ordered you a size too big. Now look at you. You've got a real career going, you know, investigating the murder of Cross Marian."  
  
Sitting with his back straight, Link dumped a stack of papers to the side and started hunting through his desk for a paperclip. He was vaguely certain the Crown Prosecutor's office was stealing them from his division, and was considering filing a complaint.  
  
"Cross Marian was a _criminal_ , not a celebrity."  
  
Tokusa had a proper laugh at this.  
  
"Oh, come on, Howie. This is _Hollywood—_  you think there's any real difference between the two?"  
  
"Don't call me that."  
  
Tokusa rolled his eyes, continuing without so much as acknowledging Link's complaint.  
  
"Cross had coin, he had pull, he hobknobbed with fat cats. Hosted big parties and rubbed shoulders with starlets. Was a racketeering crook, and everybody in Los Angeles knew it, but he never got nabbed, and people liked that. Just this morning, they printed an old picture of him posing with Anita Ekberg. Was copping a feel, too, by the looks of it. Did you see the papers?"  
  
"I'm afraid not," Link sniped. "Rather, I've been otherwise occupied with less sensational reading materials."  
  
He gestured drily to the small stack of files spread across the desk, their yellowed pages curling like the petals of hothouse flowers. Case files, standing warrants, resources from a helpful intern in Tokusa's division. Tokusa followed Link's gaze, taking in the stark, official print— and the half dozen discarded files Link had already pored through without much success.  
  
"Busy bee," Tokusa noted. He reached forward and lazily turned a file over with one hand. "This all from my boys in Vice?"  
  
Link nodded morosely.  
  
"I was following up on a previous conference we'd held. I'd wanted to know if anyone had moved in on Cross' territory since his death. He was a racketeer. His death could've been a Cohen hit."  
  
"But it wasn't," Tokusa guessed, maybe drawing his prediction from the bleak look of frustration that had Link's mouth drawn up in a tight, narrow purse line. Link let out a sharp breath, a sound too pent up with aggression to count as a proper sigh.  
  
"It was a dead end, unfortunately. No one appears to be organising his assets, no one's moving in to claim his keep."  
  
He'd asked them a few other things too— they knew dirty business better than Link did, and if this Neah was tangled up in that, they were the ones to ask. Another dead end. No one so much as recognised the name. No mention of him in any of the dossiers he'd been given on Cross Marian, either.  
  
Tokusa cocked his head to the side, running a hand over the sharp, clean-shaven angles of his face. "So much for the criminal infighting angle."  
  
"It was certainly an angle I'd been considering," Link admitted tersely. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache that would undoubtedly follow him throughout the rest of the day. He needed a cup of coffee somewhat desperately.  
  
Tokusa tapped one long finger against the desk, looking down at Link with a look that would've been nearly affectionate had it not been so sardonic. A trademark Tokusa look. All he was missing was the cigarette dangling between his teeth.  
  
"I'm calling this one," Tokusa announced, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile. A playful, self-satisfied smile, the kind that easily obfuscated the fact that he was actually very, very good at his job. "I'll bet it was a lover's spat. You've got your skeezy motel, you've got your standard sleazebag— and a bullet running right through him. Guy like that keeps around a lot of girls, right? Say one of them gets jealous, tempers run hot, and _bang_."  
  
Tokusa curled his hand into a rough pantomime gun, pointed it in Link's direction, pretended to fire it off. Link considered it briefly. He thought of the strange man that had been seen yanking Cross out of the brothel like a furious housewife, arguing all the way, crash, burn, _bang—_  then, he became so embarrassed by the train of thought he had to abandon it entirely.  
  
"Well, there's one theory," he said instead, deadpan, dismissing it. "Maybe there's a homicide detective in you yet."  
  
Tokusa rolled his eyes. "Am I being scouted?"  
  
"If you like."  
  
Tokusa snorted, reaching back with one hand to card a hand through his hair. Link's eyes flickered back down to the file between his hands, skimming over the contents.  
  
"That's real flattering, Howie, but I'm not putting in for a change in status just yet," Tokusa paused, considering his own words once more before continuing in the same tone of contained wit.  
  
Link supposed that, in Tokusa's eyes, the move from Vice to Homicide would be something of a demotion. Homicide was where the challenges were, but the Vice detectives were the LAPD's glamour squad, their gangbusters, their glory dogs, and a thousand other fabulous g-words that sounded fantastic in the papers but meant very little to Link.  
  
Tokusa went on, eyes glittering,"Mads, on the other hand, would probably love to trade divisions about now."  
  
Link frowned. "What's wrong with Madarao?"  
  
"He's just plain exhausted. They've got him and the rest of his department working around the clock. Some East Coast bank robbers have just hit Los Angeles— the Noahs, I think. Yeah, yeah. They've hit a casino and two banks already, and the week's not even through yet. Has the whole Robbery Division squirming."  
  
"That sounds troublesome," Link said, then he paused abruptly. "Hold on. Precisely _when_ did the Noahs become active in Los Angeles?"  
  
"I don't know. Four days, maybe."  
  
Four days. Lining up eerily close to the death of Marian Cross. Uncanny. Link closed the open file in his hands very slowly, setting it back down on his desk as he lifted his gaze to meet Tokusa's eyes openly.  
  
"You said they're from the East Coast?"  
  
"Robbed up Hoboken, Elizabeth, Camden, what-have-you. Some kind of heist went bad for them in Atlantic City, though— one of their guys double-crossed, a couple of 'em ended up in the glasshouse. Big shebang." Tokusa trailed off, rubbing a hand over his neck thoughtfully. When he lifted his arm, Link could catch the glint of his service gun, holstered at the waist. There was a flash through his mind, a flash Cross Marian's dried blood flaking like rust.  
  
Nothing he could use in Administrative Vice's records, but if there was any chance he was looking in the wrong place... but that could always be wishful thinking. Link steepled his fingers.  
  
"Are they armed? How many of them—"  
  
"Listen, it's not my case," Tokusa folded his arms, quirking an eyebrow. "If you're curious, you should be asking Mads about it, not me. I think they just got the files from the Jersey PD."  
  
"I'll take it." Link stood at his desk, stacked the files neatly. "You can take these back to your division, and remember to thank that secretary for me. She was very helpful."  
  
"I think she's waiting for you to show your gratitude with a date."  
  
"I'm afraid she'll be waiting for quite a while."  
  
Tokusa called after Link's retreating back. "You're still young, Howie, for Chrissakes. Remember to get out of the office every once and a while!"  
  
He took a serene pleasure in ignoring Tokusa, snagging his coat with him as he shouldered through the crowds of temps and lingering investigators to reach the neighbouring division.  
  
Like hell he was making it through the morning without finding anything to advance the investigation. He'd promised to meet Allen Walker that morning, and maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but there was something deep inside him that couldn't abide the thought of letting down the bright guile of his eyes.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Los Angeles was full of light.  
  
It was the kind of light that never went out— a sweet, eternal California light you had to see to believe. It's softness was a read-made complement the pale palette of a desert. It made the shadows of the setting sun long, smoky and rich.  
  
It because of this light that the big picture studios had set up in California in the first place, to be shot in the fantastic lustre of it. Chasing it, they'd brought a glow of their own — the red and pink glow of the strip. The soul of the city was a soul of exteriority, though that never seemed to bother anyone. Not when the scenery was so nice to look at. The city was postcard ready, with it's endless orange groves, white sand beaches, and blonde-haired women; their penmanship autograph-ready.  
  
The view outside Allen's window was less picturesque. Beyond a thin layer of glass, kids whizzed down the dusty street. They shot cap pistols. They drank ginger ale. They laughed. A couple of hopheads came stumbling by, talking amongst themselves nervously, and dissipated quick at the sound of distant police sirens.  
Exhausted beyond belief but too wired to sleep, Allen parted the Venetian blinds with his fingertips, watching idly. A mother ushered a small flock of children out the diner across the street. A man walked his poodle. Distant churchbells. A wedding, or maybe a funeral.  
  
Kanda came by in the morning, picked up a box of files for Lenalee, and they'd argued with petty hostility between each phone call Allen made.  
  
The bad blood between them was old, having been born within maybe within the same minute they'd met one another, but it was the kind that somehow came as no surprise to Allen— or anyone who'd even met either of them. Allen liked to chalk it up to a difference in philosophy, what with Kanda's insistent suspicion of all good things. Kanda's rancor against the world turned only to grim satisfaction only when humanity proved him right in their venality, mendacity and brutality.  
  
"You look like _shit_ ," Kanda said, hoisting a box as Allen suspended the receiver between his shoulder and ear. "Have you been up all fucking night?"  
  
Allen focused obstinately on the view outside the window, doing his best impersonation of a man who couldn't be pressed to give a shit. It was apparently a very good impersonation; he could practically hear Kanda bristling. "Last I checked, that was none of your business."  
  
An irritated huff.  
  
" _Idiot_. Keep this up, and you're gonna fuckin' collapse, you know that?"  
  
Allen flipped a page on his desk for no other reason than to appear busy. "What, you worrying for my health, now?"  
  
"Like hell I am. If you're going to be an idiot, you deserve to collapse. Teach you a lesson."  
  
He heard the door swing open, Kanda push through, and listened for the steady sound of his footsteps down the stairs and out the door. Allen punched the next number into the red telephone, waiting in restless silence at the tone.  
  
Officer Howard Link's unassuming car pulled up next to Allen's building around at 10:00, and from his window, Allen watched as he stepped out. Underneath his overcoat, Link was wearing a steely gray suit the looked to have been tailored to his lean figure. By comparison, Allen almost felt underdressed in simply slacks and a white shirt rolled to his sleeves.  
  
He looked down that the hypertrophic burn scar crackling its way up his left arm, looking red and broken all the way up to where the edge of clean white cotton began. Reflexively, he pulled it down, and hunted his gloves from out his desk drawer before Link could reach his door.  
  
Allen didn't hide his scars because he himself couldn't stand the sight of them. In private, he sort of liked to watch the way the crackling flesh warped as he tested his arm; it was a reminder of who he was. It wasn't even that he was ashamed of them, either not exactly. Rather, it was more that he was acutely aware of how unpleasant other people found them to look at. It was something like a matter of politeness.  
  
(It had been in Mana's nature to value politeness. Allen had adopted that same nature as best as he could.)  
  
There was a rap at the door. Allen went to answer it, offering Link a smile from where he stood on the other side of threshold.  
  
"Good morning, officer," Allen said, with as much cheer he could possibly muster.  
  
"Good morning," Link returned. He looked like he wanted to return Allen's smile but wasn't entirely certain how to go about it. That was a shame. Allen had seen Link smile once, and he'd liked it. Liked it a lot. Instead, Link nodded formally in Allen's direction.  
  
Allen opened the door wider, inviting Link inside. Link peered inside, but hovered outside the door, looking a little awkward. Somehow, it actually managed to be a little endearing.  
  
"Don't be shy!" Allen leaned against the door, smiling all the wider, and Link's flustered expression dissolved into a look of exasperation.  
  
"I am _not_ shy."  He made his way inside somewhat pointedly, stepping over the threshold slowly as he moved to strip himself of his coat Gray really was a good look on him. Clean and cold.  
  
"Then what are you?" Allen rolled his eyes playfully.  
  
"A professional, I might hope."  
  
"Most professionals are crackpots, you know."  
  
Link arched a brow critically. This was a favourite expression of his, Allen was realising. "Most, but not all."  
  
He looked about the room, thoughtful; Allen realized, belatedly, that he maybe should have thought to tidy up. His office desk, in particular, was strewn haphazardly with stacks of paperwork, news clippings, curling photographs, and pages torn from old address books— some of which were pinned beneath his desk fan, which whirred on and on. White noise.  
  
It wasn't in Allen's nature to feel self-conscious, but he wasn't used to outwards scrutiny either. Reflexively, he plucked at the material of his gloves.  
  
"I'd offer you a coffee, if we were back at my apartment. And if you were a drinker, I'd offer you a drink. Failing that, I guess I could get you... a glass of water?" He laughed. This was hardly a social call, but it was still worth something to play the host, right? "How about a cigarette?"  
  
He looked over at Link, and Link looked back at him, his expression neutral. Link's eyes had a penetrating look. A good quality for a cop. He had what could be called shadow-eyes, the look of them dark and heavy and long. Allen thought again of the Los Angeles sun, the darkness cast by skyscrapers. "Have you slept, Walker?"  
  
Allen scratched the back of his neck, guilty. "Some."  
  
He'd slept three hours in the morning only to be roused by bad dreams and the insistent need to do anything that might keep him awake; from there he'd downed a coffee and launched himself into his end of the investigation, for all the good it did him.  
  
His hand fell back to his side, switching conversational tracks. "I didn't know actually if you'd actually be stopping by."  
  
Link frowned, looking like he wanted to protest Allen's evasion, but let it drop. Maybe recognising his own hypocrisy. There were bags beneath those keen eyes, and fresh ink smudged just beneath the cotton lining of his shirtcuffs.  
  
"I said I would."  
  
Mysterious thing, that.  
  
"Couldn't sleep, so... I spent the morning asking around. A couple girls say they saw Cross with a man matching Neah's description earlier this week, but never before, and not since— _well_." Allen kneaded the balls of hands into eyes, forcing himself into alertness. God. This case. Cross.  
  
He looked between his hands, back to Link, whose expression had mollified into something pensive. Understanding, maybe. "Have you had any luck yourself?"  
  
"... Involving the case, or in sleeping?"  
  
Maybe this was Link's version of _joking_. Allen cracked a smile that felt somewhat absurd, collecting himself.  
  
"Surprise me."  
  
Link paced the room slowly, moving towards the redbrick window to examine the view of the street below.  
  
"If you were going to rob a bank in Los Angeles, which would you rob?"  
  
"Okay," Allen said. "You got me. That _is_ a surprise."  
  
Link turned his head to look at Allen. "I got a tip from a friend in Robbery. A gang of New Jersey bank robbers have made a sudden appearance on West Coast not a day before the death of Cross Marian, allegedly chasing a turncoat member that put half their former ranks in prison. The Noah. One of them matches Neah's physical description more or less exactly."  
  
Noah. A light bulb went off in Allen's head. He straightened up unexpectedly, gears turning in his head.  
  
"Noah, Noah. I heard about this. I got a call from a bank manager three days ago, asking me to case the joint. Apparently, the local PD weren't much help to him."  
  
"They're overworked," Link said, automatic, defensive.

"Of course they are."  
  
"I want to confirm my suspicions before alerting my superiors of a possible connection between these cases."  
  
"So... we're chasing bank robbers?" "That sounds kind of glamorous."  
  
Link made an exasperated noise,  
  
"How many times do I have to— crime is _not_ glamorous!"  
  
Allen laughed, joining Link by the window, running a hand through his hair— feeling the smooth sensation of the leather against it, and the dim reminder of the  
bright, lurid scarring beneath.  
  
"Hey, don't knock it 'till you try it, _officer_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :/ tfw when you wanted to give road a smith and wesson model 29 revolver (like dirty harry) but they won't exist until 1955... sucks man... ah, whatever. clint eastwood is a racist.
> 
> exposition! building! towards! stuff! minor edits were made to previous chapters because i'm getting slightly better at research + period accuracy. each chapter title is also a real classic hollywood noir film, which i thought would be cute.
> 
> hurryupfic @ tumblr.


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